


Love Lost as Soon as Won

by Mertens



Series: Sonnet 86 [7]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Angst, Erik has Issues, F/M, Pining, The Author Regrets Everything, Unrequited Love, so many issues, title from a Yeats poem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:27:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23022472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertens/pseuds/Mertens
Summary: Erik misses Christine when she’s not around, but he has a way to cope with that.orpervy sweet sewer goblin feels shame over mannequin cuddling sadtimes(Set during The Timeless Erosion of Fantasy’s Dream)
Relationships: Christine Daaé & Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Mannequin/Erik, mannequin & Erik
Series: Sonnet 86 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1296275
Comments: 13
Kudos: 51





	Love Lost as Soon as Won

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set after Erik and Christine are on good terms but before he gives her a key to his house.

Erik was humming to himself as he returned to his little house and locked the door behind him. He had just gotten back from a lesson with Christine, and he was always in such a good mood after those. He only wished that he could stay longer around her, no matter how much time they had already spent together up above. 

He sighed a little, still smiling. His house felt so empty - something he had never minded before. But now, now that he and Christine were on good terms and she seemingly accepted him as a mortal man and not an angel, he found himself wishing that she could spend more of her time around him, wishing that perhaps his home wasn’t quite so lonely after all - just one extra person could do wonders to ease the solitude, could they not?

Ah, but she had very many things to busy herself with up there - her job, her dance classes, her friends, her hobbies... _the boy_. 

Erik had things, too, he supposed. He sat down to compose a little, but noticed that his playing was growing steadily more melancholy and slow. He frowned. That would never do. He wanted to hold on to the good feeling he had when he was with Christine. He got up from the piano and paced a little, until he decided he would do some sewing. It was hard to be sad when one was focused on intricate needlework, and he had just the project for that. 

He went to his mannequin closet and pulled out the one with the Aminta dress. It was his very favorite mannequin, which might be an odd thing to have favorites in, but ah, _this_ mannequin was quite different from the rest. How could he not adore this one? Some of his mannequins he had bought, and some he had made himself, and some he had appropriated from upstairs - this was one he himself had carved and molded, and it was the only one with life-like features. 

And how life-like they were! Even now he couldn’t help but admire his work - the delicate painting of her face, the gentle curve of her nose and chin, the soft slope of her bosom, the clever articulation in her joints. Each of those features was quite necessary, after all - how else could he make certain her costumes would fit perfectly and not restrict her movements? 

He was quite confident that his skills had allowed him to accurately judge the circumference of all of her - all of her that he could see, at least. It was a very accurate Christine, he was certain. And that was good, because he needed accuracy when he was creating costumes - in this case, the dress for Aminta in his opera, his _Don Juan Triumphant_. She would wear this dress when she sang the duet near the end of the first act - the flouncy lace and beadwork would look excellent and highlight her every movement. 

He picked her up carefully, one arm beneath her bottom and the other around her waist. He always had to be careful when moving her, she wasn’t the most steady thing at times and was prone to falling over. He supposed it had something to do with the unfinished construction underneath - the fact of the matter was that from the waist down to her knees he hadn’t given her much more than some strong metal wire to hold her together. Rudimentary hip and knee joints, just enough that she could sit down, but not much else. There were a great many reasons to this - for one, he didn’t need to create anything that would be worn down there, his costumes were all things such as dresses or cloaks or gloves or skirts and bodices. Anything sort of pantaloons or drawers or underclothes she’d need for under her costumes could be supplied by herself. He’d never put in her pants, of course, the idea was too absurd. This was the main reason, he told himself. 

He was embarrassed to admit that another reason was, well, _embarrassment_. He could feel his face grow warm with shame just thinking about carving out _those places_ on the mannequin (he had been certain that his face would never return to its normal color after sculpting her bust - that had been bad enough!). Besides - he had never seen that part of her, anyway. She’d been made to wear some scandalous outfits in the ballet corps, but the fact remained that he had never seen anything of her above her knees or below her waist. It left him with a burning curiosity. What did she look like under there? Under all those tulle ballet skirts and bustles and petticoats? Oh, he had seen medical illustrations, of course, diagrams meant for scientific advancement, and also certain other publications meant for less... _scientific_ pursuits - he had a good idea of what was where and why, but as to what Christine specifically looked like, he was woefully unsure. He would never find out, he was certain. And he couldn’t bring himself to simply _guess_ and carve that - he wanted this to look exactly her in every way. But he didn’t have a reason to make anything down there anyway - no _legitimate_ reason - so it didn’t matter (not in the least) that he didn’t know what she looked like, because even if he did know he didn’t want to carve those places anyway. He firmly chanted this in his mind whenever his thoughts strayed to the missing parts of his beloved mannequin. It didn’t matter. 

He carried her into the sitting room and helped her to sit on the couch, settling her joints into necessary positions and arranging her feet just so. She leaned over just slightly, so he grabbed a little pillow to prop behind her back to help her sit up straight. There - that would be more comfortable for her. 

Once his Christine was settled, he left to quickly retrieve his sewing kit. He returned and was dismayed to find she had fallen to the floor, a hapless victim of gravity. 

“Christine, you silly girl!” he clicked his tongue at her. “What are you doing down there, my dear? Come now, sit up so Erik can make you something beautiful to wear!”

He picked her up and resettled her on the couch before he set to work on sewing more ruffles and beads to the skirt. 

He worked in silence for a little while, but soon enough the sadness started to creep back in on the corners of his mind. Christine - the Christine upstairs - had ballet practice after her lesson that afternoon, so she hadn’t been able to stay and talk for very long. He could have spent hours talking to her. He missed her terribly. She was the one bright spot in the darkness of his life. 

He glanced up at the Christine just across from him. She was staring off at the fireplace and smiling that little smile of hers. She was always smiling. Such a cheerful girl. The ruffle he was sewing beads to was finished. He scooted closer to begin the next row, one that was significantly higher up on the skirt. He hesitated, then patted her dress where her knee should be. 

“No need to be shy, my dear, it’s quite alright. Your Erik will always seek to preserve your modesty!”

His eyes left her face, meaning to focus once again on the skirt, but unfortunately they happened to glance at the neckline of the dress, that low-cut, ruffled, accentuated neckline which would be made all the more revealing by the style of the corset that would be tightly laced below it. He glanced dubiously at her eyes again and shifted uncomfortably on the couch. The neckline that he had designed made a mockery of his previous words. 

He pushed the thought from his mind, accidentally pricking his finger on the needle and hissing through his teeth. He scowled down at the fabric. 

There wasn’t anything wrong with this dress! It wasn’t shameful - it _couldn’t_ be shameful - it was only a costume, after all! It was just pretend, just make believe. Make believe never hurt anyone, not really. 

He shook his head. The only thing underneath of the ruffle where his hands were working was some metal in the vague shape of a human pelvis, anyway. Make believe indeed. It didn’t matter. 

He worked on in silence, stitch after stitch, bead after bead. The fireplace crackled and the beads made a little noise as he dug his fingers into the jar he kept them in. 

He paused after a while, studying the mannequin. She was, obviously, wearing the Aminta dress. Didn’t that make her Aminta, then? He didn’t want Aminta in that moment. He wanted Christine. 

He packed up his sewing kit, sealed the jar of beads, and placed both on the table next to the couch. 

“Wouldn’t you like to wear something more comfortable, my dear?” he asked as he stood and picked her up again. 

As he carried her bridal style to the Louis-Philippe room, he mused on how nice it was to hold her like this. He loved how sweetly, how trustingly she leaned against him, as though he were her protector in a cruel and chaotic world. He wished she would she put her arms around his neck or shoulders, but life was it was and he was grateful for whatever little he got. 

He didn’t lay her down on the bed, though that would have been easiest - no, that was far too inappropriate! He propped her against the wall as he opened the wardrobe and pulled out a simple blue tea dress. Blue always looked so nice on her, he thought as he held the dress up as though to gain her opinion on it. 

“This one, I think,” he nodded to himself, approaching the mannequin. 

He bit his lip and stared for a moment. This part was always the most confusing, a part that filled him feelings he didn’t quite want to examine. He dreaded it and longed for it all at the same time. 

He turned his unblinking gaze off to the wall and his shaking fingers unlaced the corset around her middle, tossing it to hang off of a chair nearby. He carefully turned her around and pulled her hair to the side, unbuttoning the back of her dress, revealing the pale painted wood of her back and shoulders. He swallowed hard. Was this what it would be like to undress Christine? As always, the unbidden thoughts came and taunted and teased at him. 

He pulled the dress down quickly, the sight of her unfinished below the waist jarring next to what he was just thinking about. The dress got tossed to the chair as well, and he quickly prepared the tea dress to be put on her. He pulled it up around her, fastening it in the back before turning her around to face him again. He straightened out the neckline and the sleeves and smiled. 

“There,” he said, giving her shoulder a pat. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

He picked her up to carry her back to the sitting room, taking a moment to arrange her arms around his shoulders as best he could. 

“You have nothing to be embarrassed about around your Erik, darling, it’s alright,” he murmured to her, though it was his own face that was red after having changed her clothing. 

He carried her back to the couch, sitting her down before kneeling on one knee in front of her, arranging her hair just so, running his fingers through the gentle curl and twist of her wig, splaying her curls over her shoulders. 

Christine _liked_ wearing her hair down, he told himself - and she did, didn’t she? She often wore it down around him. There was nothing strange about this. 

“There we are,” he said, rising and smiling at her. “Isn’t that more comfortable, my dear? Erik will always see to your comfort.”

He stooped for a moment, placing a chaste kiss to the top of her head, and was only slightly unnerved by her lack of response. Ah, the poor girl was overcome with emotion, that’s why she said nothing! 

He pulled back, his hands anxiously fiddling with the lapels of his jacket. 

“May- may your Erik join you on the couch, dearest?” 

She smiled at him and his shoulders relaxed just slightly. He sat down close to her, his gaze focused on the fire. Why the devil shouldn’t he sit next to his mannequin? He created her! 

He squeezed his hands together in his lap, staring down at them. This wasn’t Christine next to him, and he knew it. This would never be Christine next him. He gave her a sidelong glance, then turned to be sitting facing her. There was no need for proprietary here, not with her. 

With possessive hands he pulled her close, picking her up and settling her slight weight on his lap. He held there for a moment, hugging her. 

Christine would surely be a little heavier, and he knew she would surely feel different on his lap due to actually having thighs and hips and a bottom. But that didn’t matter - he was very good at pretending. 

He adjusted her arms, placing one around his waist and the other to have her hand resting on his shoulder. He was disgusting, he knew that too, but it didn’t stop him. He rested his masked forehead on her own forehead, letting his eyes slide closed. 

“I love you, Christine,” he whispered. “I love you.”

He made certain to keep his hold on her light so as to not break the illusion - her carved wooden skin was hard, whereas the real Christine’s flesh would surely be soft. Her dress was soft as least, the fabric brushing against the skin of his hands and face. 

He pressed a kiss to the side of her face. Her cheek was as cold as his, and he sighed. The true Christine was probably very warm, made to feel all the warmer by how cold he was himself. Still, he pressed on with the charade. He was very good at pretending. 

After all, surely even Christine became chilled at times. Perhaps she had been out in the evening air - perhaps they had just both gotten back from a walk near the Bois, her cheeks and nose still cold and red from the wind, her charming little coat having been abandoned near his cape by the front door - well, no matter, her Erik would make certain she warmed up quickly. Hadn’t it been such a lovely evening? What joy they had had as they looked up at the stars as they walked back to their home! How sweet it had been to feel her little hands clinging to his arm as they had walked so closely, side by side! 

“How wonderful it is to spend the evening like this, with my little wife,” he murmured to her - to himself - to no one in particular. 

His lips quirked into the smallest of smiles - he had admitted it to himself not so very long ago, and it was the first time he had uttered the words aloud. For that was what he truly felt towards her, what he actually wanted from her - he wanted her to be his wife. He did not want just a fascinating friend, nor did he have a mere crush or an admiration for the girl, not even an infatuation - but he viewed her, wanted her, as a wife. He loved her so dearly, and she didn’t even know. 

He stared at the fire for a long time, until the weight of her hand on his shoulder felt false, until he was reminded of how her flesh wasn’t flesh at all but wood and plaster instead, until he ceased to be a man sitting on the couch with his wife and instead remembered that he was a pitiful excuse of a creature hugging a lump of material made up to look like the young woman he taught and had inappropriate feelings for. He was sick and vile and horrible and-

He blinked hard, his tears falling on the blue dress. 

He remembered now, too, that wasn’t even evening - it was afternoon still. Christine was probably just getting done with ballet class. He hugged the Christine on his lap a little tighter. 

Could he blamed for creating her? Could he really? Was he truly that terrible for wanting to be able to tell her he loved her, to touch a lock of her hair? He didn’t mean anything terrible by it. 

He squeezed his eyes shut until his own voice in his head stopped yelling accusations, and buried his face in the crook of her wooden neck, sobbing as he sought comfort by clinging to the very thing that mortified and shamed him. 

Holding her here like this was a triumph - Christine! In his arms! - a symbol of having won his greatest desire, but it was also a stark reminder that even though he held such affection for her real counterpart, he would never be able to have the real thing. 

He could never let the real Christine know - not about the mannequin, not about how he felt, not about any of it. She should never be burdened with such horrible knowledge, these things that would surely make her lose all her pretty color if she only knew. That would be his burden alone to bear. 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered thickly, still clutching at her. “I’m sorry.”

Christine only smiled. 

When he saw the real Christine two days later, he smiled fondly at her as he greeted her, nothing more than would be expected from a teacher. And she, too, smiled as she greeted him, completely unaware of how he had spent his time in his home, of how he felt about her. 

The mannequin had been locked away in the closet again, and he had sworn to himself that he would never take it out again, just like he’d sworn so many times before. He had Christine right here in front of him, wasn’t that enough? 

There wasn’t even a hint of sadness about him, or even of longing. She suspected nothing, and that was how he wanted it. Because when it came down to it, his feelings on the subject really didn’t matter. He knew he should feel joy over it all - that she had allowed him to stay in her life after everything - but even still that melancholy ache was there, just under the surface. He would enjoy his time spent with her as much as he could, and try to console himself in the times not spent with her. She would never find out.

He was, after all, very good at pretending.


End file.
